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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29977344">Where the Spirit Meets the Bones (Your Move)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekyhobbit/pseuds/cheekyhobbit'>cheekyhobbit</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Evermore (Season 5/6 Rewrite) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dawson's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>A scene from 5x05 perhaps, Dawson is a menace, F/M, Joey writes a poem about Pacey, Pacey is charming, You're Welcome, basically everything you've come to expect from this series, season 5 rewrite</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:54:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,399</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29977344</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekyhobbit/pseuds/cheekyhobbit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Part III. A continuation from "All the Things That Will Be Lost", set around the timeline of 5x05.</p><p>Dawson visits Joey at Worthington after the untimely death of his father, but she can't stop thinking about Pacey. </p><p>The boat rocks on the waves<br/>We move with it, gliding<br/>across the dance floor, ribcages touching<br/>His hand on my back<br/>my hand on his shoulder<br/>He whispers three words into my ear<br/>I am moved...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dawson Leery/Joey Potter, Joey Potter/Pacey Witter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Evermore (Season 5/6 Rewrite) [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197224</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Where the Spirit Meets the Bones (Your Move)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>I'd meet you where the spirit meets the bones<br/>
</b> <b>In a faith forgotten land</b></p>
<hr/><p><em> The boat rocks on the waves<br/>
</em> <em> We move with it, gliding<br/>
</em> <em> across the dance floor, ribcages touching<br/>
</em> <em> His hand on my back<br/>
</em> <em> my hand on his shoulder<br/>
</em> <em> He whispers three words into my ear <br/>
</em> <em> I am moved </em></p><p>“What’re you writing?”</p><p>Joey startled at his voice. She turned to look over her shoulder at Dawson, who was sitting on her bed, flipping through a film magazine. He’d spent a few more days in Capeside after the funeral before his Aunt Gwen, who’d decided to stay on and look after her bereaved sister Gale, had told him to go to Boston and see his friends. Dawson had sounded dubious when he’d told Joey this over the phone, so of course she had said it sounded like a good idea, and now he was here. He was ostensibly staying at Grams’ house with Jen and Jack, but he’d spent most of his time holed up in her dorm room, reading magazines and staring at the wall. </p><p>When she’d told Pacey a few nights ago that she just wanted to be able to help Dawson, to support him in the way that he’d supported her, she’d meant it. But in reality, it was a lot harder than she’d anticipated. She’d tried sitting alongside him, holding his hand, but it just felt awkward and strange. After a couple of minutes, he’d pulled his hand away. They’d attempted to go for a walk around campus yesterday, but drizzling rain had driven them back indoors. Last night, they’d all gone together to see a movie, but Dawson had walked out halfway through. Joey had abandoned her popcorn and gone after him, but he’d insisted that he wanted to be alone. When Jen had also followed him out of the cinema, he’d allowed her to escort him home. Her, but not Joey. Of course, he was staying with Jen, so it made sense that they’d leave together, but it still stung. Joey had gone back to the cinema and sat down next to Jack, staring wordlessly at the screen, absorbing nothing. Pacey had been at work, and she’d gone to see him afterwards, but when she’d arrived at the restaurant after his shift, she’d seen him standing outside the back door with a pretty waitress with curly hair and coffee-colored skin. She was smoking a cigarette and he was leaning against the wall and smiling at her. Joey had turned around and gone back to her dorm. </p><p>The next morning, Dawson had turned up after breakfast. She’d been surprised to see him, but pleased that he’d sought out her company. Now, she was starting to wish he’d just leave. She hated herself for even thinking it, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t help him. He was like a shell of himself, fluctuating between zombie-like stillness and waves of sad confusion. When her mom had died, Joey had moved rapidly out of that numb stage and become a whirling dervish of rage, unleashing her anger on the world at large. Everyone had been fair game -- Bessie, her dad, her middle school teachers, even the Leerys -- but the main target of her fury had always been Pacey. He hadn’t helped himself, of course, constantly needling her, prodding her both verbally and physically until she lashed out at him. She’d hated him. She’d needed him. With him around to get mad at, she’d been able to restrain herself around Dawson. Dawson could remain her ‘safe space’, the person she could be around and pretend like she was a normal teenage girl with normal teenage problems. Pacey had taken her constant abuse on the chin while hovering on the periphery of their friendship, trying to find a way into the inner enclave of Dawson’s bedroom. Joey had pushed him away. Pushed him out of her life, and out of Dawson’s, too. Pacey made her feel too much, made all of her emotions too big. When she was with Dawson, she’d felt still, anchored, quiet. </p><p>He’d always been her safe harbor. Pacey was the distant horizon. Joey had bobbed between the two of them over the years, occasionally daring to set sail, too often dropping anchor and tethering herself to the ocean floor. It had taken her breaking free to run away with Pacey to realise just how much she’d been holding herself back, and yet, on her return to Capeside, she hadn’t been able to convince herself that she couldn’t return to that safe haven. Hadn’t been able to talk herself out of needing it to be there, in case she’d needed to row back across the creek, climb back up the ladder and crawl back onto Dawson’s bed. <em> Safe home </em>, as they’d used to say in kindergarten.</p><p>Now, a large part of his safety net was gone, and as a result, so was hers. Neither of them knew what to do about that. </p><p>Realising she’d been sitting in contemplative silence for too long, Joey blinked, bringing Dawson back into focus. </p><p>“What did you say?” she asked.</p><p>He repeated his question. “What’re you writing?”</p><p>“Oh.” She looked down at the words scrawled across the notepad, most of them crossed out. “A poem. Or it’s supposed to be.”</p><p>He tossed the magazine onto her mattress, his boredom plain. “What’s it about?”</p><p>She felt her face flush red, and turned away from him. “Nothing.”</p><p>“How can it be about nothing? </p><p>After nearly two hours of complete silence, <em> this </em> was what he chose to talk to her about? “It’s abstract,” she muttered.</p><p>“Can I read it?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Please?”</p><p>She sighed. “Since when are you interested in poetry, Dawson?”</p><p>“I’m always interested in everything you write.” He got to his feet. “C’mon Joey. I let you read my screenplays.”</p><p>“Whether I wanted to or not,” she replied, aiming for teasing but somehow landing on bitter. Damn. That happened to her a lot.</p><p>Pacey would’ve grinned at her and told her to <em> watch your tone, Potter. </em>Dawson frowned, his lips pursing in that stubborn way that she knew meant he was pissed that he wasn’t getting his own way, and that he wasn’t going to give up easily. </p><p>He stood up, and she covered her paper with her hand even before he leaned over her shoulder, knowing he was going to try and peek. He’d never respected her boundaries.</p><p>“Please? C’mon, it’ll cheer me up.”</p><p>Joey raised her eyebrows. “You do not get to play the grief card twenty-four-seven.” Again, she was aiming for teasing banter. Again, her words fell flat, hitting the floor with a thud that was almost audible. “Sorry. I didn’t mean…” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. I can’t believe that I don’t know what to say.”</p><p>He sat back down on her bed, the mattress springs squeaking. “Why can’t you believe it?”</p><p>“Because I feel like I should know how to do this.”</p><p>Dawson shrugged. “<em> I </em> don’t know how to do this. Why should you?”</p><p>“Well, in case you forgot, I’ve been through this before.”</p><p>“Yeah, but we were just kids then. It was different.”</p><p>She frowned. “How was it different?”</p><p>“I don’t know. It just was.” He rested his elbows on his knees, knotting his fingers together. “Things were simpler back then. We were so young, still growing into our emotions.”</p><p>Joey blinked at him. He wasn’t really saying what she thought he was saying, was he? That her grief for her mother was somehow lesser than his, because she’d been so much younger when it had happened? Her head spun. She was lost for words as the familiar rage bubbled up inside her, desperate for an outlet. </p><p>If only Pacey was here. He’d know what to say to make her blow up, to release that tension so she didn’t have to carry it inside her all the time. The way she’d carried it when she was thirteen, fourteen, fifteen years old. The weight of her resentment against the world had dragged her down for years, making her bitter and twisted and angry at everyone, and had only intensified when her father was sent to prison. </p><p>The anger had found an outlet, finally, when Jen had moved to town. Poor Jen. She hadn’t deserved that. </p><p>Joey sighed. If only Jen was here. She’d know what to say, how to behave, better than Joey did. Everyone knew how to behave better than Joey did.</p><p>“It might have been different for <em> you </em>. It wasn’t for me,” she finally managed to say through the thickness in her throat. </p><p>Dawson looked up, hearing the tension in her voice. “I wasn’t....that’s not what I meant.” </p><p>“I sure hope not.” Her voice was clipped, struggling for restraint.</p><p>“Don’t be angry, Joey.”</p><p><em> Don’t tell me how to feel, Dawson. </em> She bit the inside of her cheek, forcing her retort deep down inside herself. <em> He’s grieving. Don’t make this any harder for him than it already is.  </em></p><p>“Sorry.” She turned back into her desk. “I guess you bring out the worst in me sometimes.”</p><p>“I hope not.” She shrugged. He sighed. “The sun’s out. We could go for a walk.”</p><p>She glanced at her clock. It was almost midday. “Are you hungry?” she asked.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Me, either.” Joey scratched her temple with her no. 2 pencil. “Just give me a few minutes to finish this, okay? I have to have it done for my class at two.”</p><p>“You could let me read it now and give you some feedback,” Dawson suggested. “It might help.”</p><p>The rage monster inside reared its head, clawing at the walls, searching for a target. Joey bit her tongue, hard enough that the pain distracted her from exploding at him. </p><p>“No means no, okay?”</p><p>Audrey walked into the room at that moment, and baulked at her roommate’s words. “Uh oh. Dawson, do we need to have a talk?”</p><p>He glared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Audrey.”</p><p>“He’s mad because I won’t let him read my poetry,” Joey explained. </p><p>Audrey pulled a face as she kicked the door shut behind herself. “I hope that’s not a euphemism for anything.”</p><p>Joey snorted her amusement. “Definitely not,” she assured Audrey, then ducked her head to avoid the hurt in Dawson’s eyes. </p><p>Whatever had once existed romantically between the two of them was long since dead and buried, at least on her side. Especially now that Pacey was back. Even though they weren’t together. But she couldn’t tell how Dawson felt about her, and she was worried that his idea of seeking comfort from her was going to be a type of comfort she was neither willing nor able to give.</p><p>Joey stared back down at the words on the page. She wrote a few more words, then crossed most of them out. Dawson sighed, and picked up his magazine again.</p><p>“Well this is boring,” Audrey declared abruptly. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m starved.”</p><p>“I have to finish this,” Joey said. </p><p>Dawson flipped the page. “I’m not really hungry.”</p><p>“You should eat,” Joey told him. </p><p>“I’m not a child, Joey.”</p><p>“Maybe you need to work up an appetite first,” Audrey suggested. “Come on, it’s a beautiful day, and I don’t have any more classes, so I can dedicate the rest of my day to cheering you up.”</p><p>Dawson scowled. “I doubt you’ll succeed.”</p><p>“That’s the spirit.” She went over to Joey’s bed and grabbed his hand, pulling him to his feet. “Lucky for you, I like a challenge. Come on. Let Joey study like the good little girl that she is. You and I are hitting the town.”</p><p>He didn’t argue with her. Audrey was pretty impossible to argue with. With a put-upon sigh, Dawson picked up his sweater and headed for the door. </p><p>“Finish up your poetry and meet us on the quad at one,” Audrey told Joey as she followed Dawson out. “And don’t work too hard, Bunny. College is supposed to be fun, remember?”</p><p>Joey shot her a sarcastic thumbs-up. Audrey laughed, slamming the door shut behind her. With a sigh of relief, Joey uncovered her poem and re-read it. </p><p><em> The boat shifts on the waves<br/>
</em> <em> We move with it, filling<br/>
</em> <em> each other’s empty spaces<br/>
</em> <em> My hands on his back<br/>
</em> <em> his hands on my face<br/>
</em> <em> He mumbles my name into my skin <br/>
</em> <em> and we move  </em></p><p>Yeah, she couldn’t let Dawson read that. Ever.</p><p>Joey’s stomach rumbled. With Dawson’s departure, the tension had left the room, and her body felt free to function normally again. She chewed the end of her pencil and pulled a face at the taste.</p><p>The poem was okay. Not great, but it fit the brief for the assignment - a poem discussing movement, using rhythm and repetition. Problem was, it had no ending, no conclusion. The symmetry was there, but there was no story. It needed a third act. </p><p>The phone rang, making her jump. </p><p>“Hello?”</p><p>“You sound like you’re in a good mood. Should I call back? I was really hoping to speak to the vile, angry Joey Potter.”</p><p>Joey smiled at the sound of Pacey’s voice. “Trust me, she’s right here.”</p><p>“Okay, good.” She could hear him smiling too. “She’s just what I need right now.”</p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>“I’m having a little trouble at work, and I was hoping she could help me out.” </p><p>Joey leaned back in her desk chair, stretching her legs out in front of her. “That depends. Is your goal to get fired from your job?”</p><p>“Not exactly.”</p><p>“Then I’m not sure how much help she’d be. You see, the vile, angry Joey Potter of whom you speak has a track record as long as your arm of getting fired for being her vile, angry self.”</p><p>“People just don’t appreciate you.”</p><p>“Tell me about it.”</p><p>“You’d think they would’ve learned to read the warning label by now,” he continued. “Then they’d know what they were getting themselves in for.”</p><p>“You’d think so, but sadly it doesn’t seem to be the case. What does it say on your warning label - overzealous slacker?”</p><p>“Maybe I’ve turned over a new leaf. I left my slacker phase behind years ago.”</p><p>“Says the guy who barely graduated high school.” She cringed slightly at her words, wondering if they were cutting too close to the bone.</p><p>Pacey’s response was glib. “Well, we can’t all be hyperbolic overachievers such as yourself.”</p><p>“I’m not hyperbolic.”</p><p>“No, you’re hyper-dramatic.”</p><p>“And you’re hyperactive.”</p><p>“Nah, I left that phase behind too.”</p><p>“I’ll have you know that I’m currently sitting in my dorm room trying to finish an assignment that’s due in less than two hours,” she retorted. “I guess those slacker tendencies rubbed off on me.”</p><p>He chuckled. “Man, I’ve missed this.”</p><p>“What, the casual insults? I’d have thought you’d have those following you around wherever you went.”</p><p>“I do seem to have that effect on people. None more so than you.”</p><p>Joey laughed. She hadn’t felt this good in days. “Hey Pacey, I need to thank you for something.”</p><p>“Some<em> thing </em> singular, or plural? Because if it’s the latter, it’s about time I got the credit for the multiple orgasms I gave you the other night.”</p><p>“Shut up. That’s not what I’m thanking you for,” she said, blushing furiously. “Although they were very nice.”</p><p>“Nice?”</p><p>“Shut up,” she repeated. “I need to thank you for being my friend all these years, even when I was a bitch to you.” </p><p>“I told you already, I’m a big fan of vile, angry Joey Potter.”</p><p>“I can’t imagine why,” she retorted. “You ever consider that could be some kind of Stockholm Syndrome?”</p><p>“If it means I get to be anywhere near you, sign me up,” he said softly.</p><p>She sighed. “How do you do that?”</p><p>“Do what?”</p><p>“Go from being a complete ass to being ridiculously romantic at the drop of a hat.”</p><p>“Do you want me to be ridiculously romantic?”</p><p>“No.” </p><p>“Okay. I’ll try to restrain myself.” </p><p>“Good. Now. What’s your work problem?” she asked, moving onto her bed and lying down on her back, the phone cradled against her cheek. She wished he was there so she could insult him in person.</p><p>“Karen.”</p><p>“The smoking hot waitress?”</p><p>“How’d you know she was hot?”</p><p><em> Dammit. </em>“Wild guess.”</p><p>“Well, it was a good one.”</p><p>“I know we said we’d be friends, but I don’t really want to talk about your love life, Pacey.”</p><p>“We’re not. We’re talking about hers, actually. Which is decidedly not with me.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>“It’s with Danny.”</p><p>“Your boss?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Your boss is sleeping with one of the waitresses?”</p><p>“Yes. My married boss.”</p><p>“Ugh.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“So you want to know if you should tell his wife?”</p><p>“Uh, not exactly.”</p><p>“Because you should.”</p><p>“It’s none of my business, Jo.”</p><p>“She should know,” Joey insisted. “She should know what kind of man she married.”</p><p>“I suspect she already does. But I don’t know her, and I can’t exactly turn up at his house and blurt it out. Especially not if I want to keep my job.”</p><p>“So talk to Karen.”</p><p>“That’s my plan, but I’m not entirely sure how to broach the subject. I thought maybe you could help.”</p><p>“That’s easy. Walk up to her and ask her what the hell she’s thinking.”</p><p>“I could, but...I don’t want her to get hurt.”</p><p>Joey sighed. “Pacey, you can’t be everyone’s knight in shining armor. Not every girl wants to be saved.”</p><p>There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “I’m just trying to be a good person.”</p><p>“I know. And you are.” She plucked at a loose thread on her shirt. “I’m sorry about Danny. I know you liked him.”</p><p>“Yeah.” He sighed heavily. “I miss you, Jo.”</p><p>She closed her eyes, the weight of his words settling onto her like a blanket. </p><p>“I know,” she whispered back. She couldn’t tell him that she missed him too. Even if it was true. </p><p>Another long pause, and then Pacey started talking. He was speaking fast, almost rambling, the way he did when he couldn’t contain his feelings, and they just poured out of him in a ceaseless flood. </p><p>“That decision we made last week to spend some time apart -- I’m not sure it was the best one. I know you said I scared you Jo, and I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness for what I did at prom, but if you’d just let me--”</p><p>“Pacey, stop. Please.” She held her breath until he stopped talking. “I’ve already told you that what I need from you right now is friendship.” The word lingered on her tongue like a bad taste. </p><p>“You really think you and I can go back to just being friends? After everything we’ve been, and have meant to each other?” His voice was filled with doubt.</p><p>“We have to try. There’s no…” She huffed out a breath and abandoned that sentence. “I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone, Pace.”</p><p>“I’ll come over.”</p><p>“You can’t. Dawson’s here. Well, he’s not here <em> right now </em>,” she clarified. “He went out for a walk with Audrey, but I’m supposed to meet them for lunch in a few minutes.”</p><p>“I thought he was staying with Grams.”</p><p>“He is. But he’s been visiting me.”</p><p>“Of course he has.”</p><p>“Don’t start. You know I want to help him. He’s grieving, and he needs his friends right now.”</p><p>She heard Pacey’s low groan. “I thought you said you were done with that, Joey.”</p><p>“Done with what?”</p><p>“Prioritising his feelings.”</p><p>“I’m not.”</p><p>“Yes, you are.”</p><p>The rage monster inside her raised its head, flaring its nostrils. “Pacey, his dad just died! What am I supposed to do? Tell him to <em> buck up, little camper </em> and just get over it? You know I can’t do that.” </p><p>“I didn’t say that,” he replied. “I didn’t mean--”</p><p>“I know what you meant. Maybe this was a mistake,” she said. “Maybe we’re not ready to be friends yet.”</p><p>“Joey--”</p><p>“I have to go, Pace.”  </p><p>She hung up the phone. Her hand was still shaking as she picked up her pencil and stared at the words on the page, then wrote a few more.</p><p><em><br/>
The boat sinks below the waves<br/>
</em> <em> We sink with it, losing<br/>
</em> <em> everything we once had<br/>
</em> <em> My hand on my hip<br/>
</em> <em> his hand in his pocket<br/>
</em> <em> He looks me in the eye and says<br/>
</em> <em> ‘your move’ </em></p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Enjoy my first attempt at writing Dawson - I tried not to make him too insufferable but it's a challenge, he's a menace. Also my first attempt in a long time at writing poetry. Eek. I definitely did not take a poetry class in college. Here it is in full: </p><p>YOUR MOVE</p><p>The boat rocks on the waves<br/>We move with it, gliding<br/>across the dance floor, ribcages touching<br/>His hand on my back<br/>my hand on his shoulder<br/>He whispers three words into my ear <br/>I am moved</p><p>The boat shifts on the waves<br/>We move with it, filling<br/>each other’s empty spaces<br/>My hands on his back<br/>his hands on my face<br/>He mumbles my name into my skin <br/>and we move </p><p>The boat sinks below the waves<br/>We sink with it, losing<br/>everything we once had<br/>My hand on my hip<br/>his hand in his pocket<br/>He looks me in the eye and says<br/>‘your move’</p><p>Title and quoted song lyrics belong, as always, to Taylor Swift, this time from the song "Ivy" (Evermore).</p></blockquote></div></div>
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